


a place where we don't have to feel unknown

by glitteratiglue



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst and Humor, Episode Tag, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21681244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: "Deanna Troi - Sex positive, self care, mental health queen."- The Mary SueFive times Deanna Troi took care of her crew.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 66





	a place where we don't have to feel unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leyenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/gifts), [cosmic_llin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/gifts).

> Inspired by The Mary Sue's excellent article ['A Spirited Defence of Star Trek: The Next Generation's Deanna Troi'](https://www.themarysue.com/defense-star-trek-next-generation-deanna-troi/). The more I rewatch TNG, the more I realise that Deanna Troi was basically the most crucial person on the ship. Mental health queen, indeed.
> 
> This also wouldn't exist without cosmic-llin and Leyenn, who both write Deanna so well and always inspire me with their insights into her personality.

**1.**

Deanna wakes in the middle of the night to find Will gone from the bed.

They're staying in a guesthouse on the edge of Canaima National Park, Venezuela — a brief shuttle ride from Angel Falls — and had fallen asleep back-to-back before the chronometer reached nine pm. Despite all intentions to the contrary, exhaustion had won out over the more interesting bedtime possibilities.

Her hand touches the sheets on his side and they’re cold. Reaching out with her mind, she realises he hasn’t gone far at all.

She pads softly to the bathroom door. “Will? Are you alright?”

“Don’t come in,” comes the weak voice from the other side of the door. “I'm sick.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Come on. I’m worried about you.”

Will's grunt of assent leads her to step forward, allowing the doors to slide open. He's slumped on the floor, wedged in between the bathtub and the toilet, its lid down. His head is tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed and a sheen of sweat glistens on his skin. A sour hint of vomit lingers in the air that the recyclers haven’t taken away just yet.

“Oh, Will.” There’s no pity in her tone, only genuine sympathy for the sorry state he’s in right now.

She watches his eyes flutter open. “Pretty pathetic, right? The first night of our romantic vacation and I end up in the bathroom puking my guts out.”

Deanna won’t answer that. Instead, she fetches a glass of water and passes it to him before perching on the edge of the bathtub.

“Thanks, Deanna.” He swiftly drains half the glass and sets it down next to him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Her hand strokes through his hair, and he looks up at her with a soft smile that fades quickly. Will drops his gaze, staring off into the middle distance.

“I ate the same thing as you,” she says gently. “My stomach’s fine.”

There’s a flash of shame in his thoughts before he admits what she already knows: “I had a nightmare.”

Emotion is bleeding from Will right now, his frayed state having eroded his usual control over his feelings. An impression crosses from his mind to hers: their captain assimilated, with his ashen, bloodless skin and protruding black tubes, the cold gleam of cybernetic implants and the infernal clicking sound they made. The image shifts to the debris of Wolf 359: pieces of vessels drifting, heralding the loss of old friends, colleagues and the ship Will could have captained had he made a different choice. Then back to the terrible glint of red laser through a viewscreen, and Will’s voice saying the words that could have changed everything_: “Mr Worf, fire.”_

Deanna thinks of when they tried to reach Picard, the struggle she felt as his fledgling spirit desperately tried to break through the bonds of Locutus's mind. There are tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Will says, clearly picking up on her emotional state. “I didn’t mean for you to see all that.” He leans forward and groans, clutching a hand to his abdomen. “Ugh. It feels like targs are mating in my stomach.”

Deanna presses her hand to his shoulder and strokes soothingly. “Breathe. Drink more water.”

“Guinan told me I had to let him go to save him,” Will says, a rasp in his voice. He coughs and gulps down some water before continuing. “I thought I had, but I would never have forgiven myself if I’d killed him, even as Locutus. It was still him in there.”

“I know, Will. I could feel his humanity all along.”

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”

“We’re not talking about me right now,” she informs him.

“I thought I was fine, Deanna,” he says, anguished. “It’s all over. We saved him. When I think about what the captain's gone through, I feel even more selfish for wallowing in my own nightmares.”

Deanna has been haunted by similar dreams of late — how could she not be, after all the counseling sessions with their captain and the horrors they revealed? But she can’t admit to Will what she’s really dwelling on: his probable death if he’d accepted the commission on the _USS Melbourne_. When she imagines her mind, devoid of the thread of Will’s existence she can always sense across time and space, it feels like her throat is closing up. Losing him is unthinkable, but he doesn’t belong to her either; this is something she has long accepted. It’s hard to reconcile that with her visceral reaction to the prospect of his death.

“I don’t see selfishness,” she tells him, the words unsteady as she speaks them. “I see a man who did the best he could for his crew and captain. Who was willing to make the hard choice when it counted, to save us all. But the kind of strength you showed in that situation, Will — it has a cost. The mind can only take so much compartmentalisation before it forces us to confront our feelings. There’s strength in admitting you need help, too.”

He looks up at her, his gaze careful. “What’s your psychiatric evaluation, Counselor? 

“We’re not in my office right now, Will. Just come to bed when you’re ready.” She gets to her feet, wanting to give him some privacy.

When he returns a few minutes later, Deanna grins at the sight of the _Enterprise’s_ tough, formidable first officer with rucked-up hair, in those baggy, unflattering blue pajamas she’s been teasing him about for years.

“This is really not what I thought we’d be doing in this bed tonight,” Will gripes, his tone wistful as she tenderly tucks him into bed and climbs in next to him.

Deanna laughs softly. “I’m sure that the virile, never-met-a-sentient-being-I-didn’t-like Will Riker we all know and love will be back in action soon.”

“Ouch,” he says, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. “At least I know I can always rely on my imzadi to puncture that planet-sized ego of mine.”

“Happy to be of service.”

He shifts onto his side, tucks one arm beneath the pillow and the other around her waist. The warmth of his large frame curled around hers is such a comfort she can’t help but sigh.

“Also, _virile_? Terrible way to put it, Deanna,” Will says. “Thanks, by the way,” he adds. His voice sounds thick. “For everything.”

He drops a brief kiss to her neck and she allows herself a small smile at the tingle of mint toothpaste on her skin.

“When we get back to the ship, there are some trauma-specific protocols we can work on together,” she says quietly, relieved at the renewed stillness she senses from his mind as his body relaxes against hers. “If you’re willing, of course.”

“I am,” he says. “But tonight I just need a friend.”

“That I can do,” Deanna murmurs, shifting her body until his broad chest is aligned with her spine and his knees are pressed into the backs of her knees. She tugs his arm tighter around her. 

They don’t sleep much the rest of the night, but they hold each other, talking and half-dozing until the rising sun splits the horizon and light streams in through the windows.

It’s enough for now.

**2.**

“Are you sure this doesn’t bother you, Deanna, me talking about this?” Beverly’s expression is careful. “I know I don’t fully understand you and Will and the connection you have, but even though you gave me permission to be with Odan in his body, it felt like crossing a line.”

They’re on the couch in Deanna’s quarters — she’d sensed Beverly pacing back and forth outside her door for a good five minutes before she'd gotten up the courage to press the chime — and she is doing her level best to reassure Beverly about the situation.

“No, it doesn’t bother me,” Deanna tells her, and it's truly genuine. “Will is imzadi to me, and that will always go beyond any physical connections.” She reaches for Beverly’s hand to offer a comforting touch.

“I guess that makes sense to me,” Beverly says. “Sort of, anyway.”

“You simply have something more in common with me now.” Deanna’s lips quirk up into a smile. “And with the legions of others who have succumbed to the peculiar charms of William Riker.”

“The worst part is that Will can barely look at me now,” Beverly says, her cheeks flaming scarlet. “I know he remembers everything.” She looks at Deanna nervously. “I’m sure he’s talked to you about it.”

“I won’t betray his confidence, but one thing I can tell you is he wasn’t entirely overtaken by Odan, however it seemed. Will gave his consent for Odan to — use his body in that fashion. He knew how you loved Odan. That’s as much as I can say.” She strokes her thumb over Beverly’s knuckles. “If it helps, I think he probably isn’t looking at you because he has trouble seeing you as his chief medical officer, rather than the woman he had a wild night with. He is a human male, after all.”

“It wasn’t that wild,” Beverly clarifies, reaching for the glass of water on the table in attempt to cool her blushes. She sips it slowly, trying to calm herself down. “He was in pretty bad shape; I had to do most of the work. But Odan certainly knew what he was doing, in either body.” She sighs dreamily.

Deanna waits. She can sense Beverly needs to say more, but she isn’t quite sure how to get the words out.

So quietly she almost can’t hear, Beverly whispers: “Sometimes when I catch sight of Will, I can still feel his lips on mine. The way his beard felt against my inner thigh.”

Her words are accompanied by a rush of lust and yearning so strong that Deanna squirms a little, her thighs pressing together of their own accord. Beverly thankfully doesn’t notice. She focuses on her mental shields, pulling them back up and separating Beverly’s impressions from her own memories of nights with Will.

Deanna is nodding seriously, but a laugh escapes in spite of her best intentions. “Forgive me, Beverly,” she says, trying to compose herself. “It is a bizarre situation, you have to admit. And I’m sure the two of you will overcome the awkwardness soon enough.”

“Thanks, Deanna.” Beverly lets out a deep sigh. “I just miss him, that’s all. Odan, I mean. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have sent Kareel away.” She pauses. “It wasn’t about her being a woman, nothing like that. I couldn’t adjust, not even when it was Will. That was just the rush of infatuation talking. His original form — I could have been happy with that man. And he’s gone.”

Deanna slides along the couch and folds Beverly into her arms. They stay like that for a moment before Beverly carefully pulls back.

Beverly gives her a small smile, then claps her hands together. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Want to watch a holovid?” Deanna suggests. “There are some wonderful archaic ones from the era that Captain Picard often re-enacts on the holodeck in his Dixon Hill program. Data and I have been enjoying them in recent weeks.”

“Why not?” Beverly grins at Deanna.

“Computer,” Deanna says decidedly. “Display on viewscreen your selection of holovids under the category ‘Twentieth-Century Earth: Film Noir'.”

They watch_ The Maltese Falcon_ followed by_ Double Indemnity_. Beverly is fascinated by the black-and-white pictures that tell tales full of cynicism, murder, illicit affairs and thoroughly stylish clothes. It proves to be a more than adequate distraction. By the end of the second picture, Deanna is yawning and Beverly is fast asleep, her head lolling on Deanna’s shoulder.

Fondly, Deanna pats at Beverly's hair and reaches over to the end of the couch to grab a blanket and tuck it over the two of them.

Her job as ship’s counselor involves long hours, but being a friend is never limited by duty, nor would she ever let it be.

  
**3.**

“What is the purpose of a rubber duck?” Data is saying, up to his neck in iridescent bubbles and frowning. “How does it facilitate the act of relaxation?” He reaches for the small yellow duck on the edge of the bath, examining its little red mouth and beady eyes with interest.

“It’s _fun_, Data,” Deanna replies from her vantage point on the stool next to the bath. “The purpose doesn’t always have to be clear.” She takes the duck from him and carefully places it on the surface of the bubbles, where it floats placidly. “And look!” Pushing at the duck, she submerges it and then squeezes so water trickles from the small opening on its underside. “I loved my rubber ducks as a child.”

A bubble bath isn’t a treatment she'd normally suggest to her patients — for one, only she and the captain have bathtubs in their quarters — but after Data’s romance with Jenna D’Sora disintegrated, he had astutely noted that humans tend to engage in their own healing rituals upon the ending of a relationship. With some amusement, Deanna had told him the one thing that always makes her feel better in the midst of heartbreak is a searing-hot bubble bath (she’s privately relieved that Data took her advice over Will’s: _“The best way to get over someone, Data, is to get under somebody new. Trust me._”)

The point is: she’ll never deny Data in his quest to deepen his understanding of the human experience, especially not in such a harmless fashion.

“May I ask why you have a bathtub in your quarters?” Data muses, now piling up the bubbles in front of him with his hands. “It is highly irregular for Starfleet officers to be allowed to waste precious space in this way. Sonic showers are sufficient to maintain cleanliness.”

“A bath isn’t about 'sufficient cleanliness', Data,” Deanna says. She drops her voice and shoots him a conspiratorial look. “It’s a luxury. To be honest with you, I got around the regulations by claiming it was a sacred Betazoid custom to take baths.” She winks. “Don’t tell the captain.”

“I am beginning to think there are many things I do not know about you, Counselor,” Data observes, something like a twinkle in his yellow eyes — not quite human, but close to it.

“Frivolous luxuries are important,” she assures him. “Let me explain. When I was young, I didn’t use to like baths. I got bored easily. So my father used to sit nearby when I was in a bubble bath, and he’d read me stories or tell me all about his postings in space. He used to have a warm towel ready for me when I got out. It was only when he was home, of course. Being in Starfleet, he was away a lot, but he always made sure to spend time with me when he could. Taking baths is one of the ways I still feel close to him, not to mention it’s a wonderful way to relax. Sometimes I even eat chocolate into the bath.” Her eyes light up. “Now that’s the way to do it.”

“I believe I now understand some of the many benefits of this experience,” Data tells her, a pure smile on his face that warms her heart even more than the heat emanating from the bath. “Thank you for your enlightening insights, Counselor.”

“So how do you feel, Data?” Deanna says, bringing his attention back to the reason for the bath in the first place.

Data considers, tilting his head to one side. “I am distracted sufficiently from thinking about Jenna. The bubble bath is pleasant.”

“I think we can declare this experiment a success,” Deanna says. She folds her hands in her lap and breathes in the sweet steam, enjoying its relaxing qualities. “By the way, have you ever tried the Hoobishan Baths holodeck program?”

Data smiles his odd little smile. “I have not, nor have I ever visited Trill, but my data banks indicate they are an experience enjoyed by many.”

“You’re going to love it, Data,” Deanna tells him, her eyes shining. A sudden childish spirit overtakes her and she reaches for the bobbing duck and squishes it between her fingers, angling it so the water spray hits Data square in the face.

She doesn’t expect the response she gets. With lightning-quick reflexes, Data’s hand swipes through the water and showers her with a splash of bubbles. Deanna laughs and reaches for a towel.

“I suppose I deserved that,” she says, rueful, patting at her now thoroughly damp jumpsuit with the towel. “You’re lucky I don’t just get in there with you.”

“I do not believe that would be appropriate, Counselor, given that I am your patient.” 

Deanna gets the giggles again. “I’m sorry, Data,” she says, wiping her eyes once the laughter subsides. “You’re very right. I’m a terribly unorthodox therapist by anyone’s standards.” She grins at him. “And I was joking, by the way.”

“A fine joke,” Data tells her, nodding approvingly. “I believe Commander Riker would also find this greatly amusing.”

_No doubt_, Deanna thinks to herself, trying not to blush when thinking about Will Riker and baths in the same headspace (the huge bath at her Fifth House family home had seen a fair bit of action back in the day, to say the least).

**4.**

“Klingons do _not_ consume chocolate,” Worf says imperiously, glaring at the bar of chocolate on the table in front of him as though he is about to attack it with a bat’leth. “It has no nutritional value of note to sustain a warrior.”

Deanna smiles sweetly, resisting the urge to kick Worf under the table. After all, they are in Ten Forward, surrounded by many civilians and crew who look up to them as senior officers.

“Try it, Worf,” she says. “That’s all I’m asking. One square. And we’ll do it properly.”

“How does one eat chocolate properly, Counselor?” Worf says, exasperated. “Surely it is a dessert item that is eaten like any other food?”

“Well, this isn't just any old chocolate. It's from Ktaris, made from the cocoa beans that grow near the summit of its highest mountains. Its climate has just the right balance to allow them to flourish. The chocolate they produce there is of premium quality and extremely expensive. It cost Will several slips of latinum just to get hold of this for me.”

“I would expect nothing less from Commander Riker.” Worf scowls, and she senses the brief spike of jealousy that he quickly pushes down. “As for the traitorous Ktarians, our ship would not have been put in jeopardy by that ridiculous game had our commander not been — indulging himself. For a capable warrior, he spends far too much time engaging in hedonistic pursuits.”

“All’s well that ends well, Worf,” Deanna says smoothly, amused at Worf’s obvious respect for Will even as he questions his choices. “Besides, chocolate is the ultimate feel-good treat. Even with your Klingon physiology, it’s been shown to increase serotonin levels in the brain while reducing cortisol. An excellent remedy for stress if there ever was one.”

“Klingons do not succumb to stress,” Worf insists, bristling at the suggestion. “It is an entirely human affliction.”

“Worf,” Deanna says, her tone sharp. She leans in closer and softens her voice. “Beverly just discharged you from sickbay a week ago, and I know things have been difficult with Alexander. He’s been terribly distressed over the experience of nearly losing his father.”

Worf shifts uncomfortably in his chair, saying nothing at first. She picks up on the shame and guilt he still feels over his recent spinal surgery. He is still wrestling with the fact that he allowed humans to carry out an experimental treatment on his Klingon body, rather than completing the _hegh’bat_ and dying with honour.

“Alexander has been…challenging, I will admit,” Worf says after a moment. He points at the chocolate. “Let us get this pointless ritual over with.”

With an impish smile, Deanna plucks a square of chocolate from the open box and waves it in front of his face. “Open up.”

“Counselor, this is not appropriate,” Worf says, before opening his mouth enough to allow Deanna to place the piece of chocolate on his tongue.

“Close your eyes,” she instructs confidently. “Now, let the chocolate dissolve on your tongue. Focus on the taste: its sweetness, its acidity; the sumptuous, silky texture of it in your mouth as it melts. Let it be an experience.”

Worf does as he is told, albeit grudgingly. His eyes close and he takes an acceptable amount of time to consume the chocolate. 

Deanna eats her own square of chocolate in the same way, luxuriating in the blissful moment for as long as she can. 

“It is not entirely unpleasant,” Worf concedes once she opens her eyes to find him staring at her, unsmiling but with an unmistakable hint of mirth in his gaze. “I will try another piece.”

She pushes the bar of chocolate towards him. “Be my guest.”

Taking another piece, Worf inclines his head and signals for a waiter. “I believe the complex flavours of this chocolate would go very well with prune juice.”

Beneath Worf’s customary gruff exterior, Deanna can feel how grateful he is.

**5.**

Picard squints as they step into the dimly-lit holodeck together.

His gaze sweeps around to take in the cave system around them: the gleaming stalactites and stalagmites, the markings on the cave walls in the ancient Betazoid language.

He traces the markings with his fingers. “Remarkable,” he whispers. “Has anyone ever studied these? I’d very much like to visit the real thing someday.”

“Captain,” Deanna says sternly, taking him by the elbow and steering him to the waiting meditation mat, laid out on the floor of the cave and illuminated by more than a hundred candles that surround them. “We’re not here for an archeology session. The point of going to the Janaran Caves is to find oneself and engage in deep meditation.”

She can’t suppress a smile when she thinks about the waterfall above them and the entirely non-meditative pursuits she and Will undertook there, once upon a time.

“I feel entirely well, Counselor Troi.” Picard shoots her a petulant look. “I think I could attain much the same level of relaxation from a nice horse ride through the French countryside.” Nostalgia comes through in his thoughts, and she knows he’s thinking of the fine polished saddle awaiting him in his quarters.

“That sounds delightful, my dear captain, but thankfully, I’m ship’s counselor in this situation and I get to make the decisions.” She gestures to the mat and kneels upon it, arranging her body into a cross-legged pose in one graceful movement. “Now you.”

Picard does as she asks, and he has no trouble assuming the position. He remains in good shape for a man his age, she has to admit, despite everything. His shirt is hanging off him and it gives her a pang to see how thin he became in the custody of the Cardassians.

“You’ve been talking with Beverly,” he tells her, and she won’t deny it. “That sounds very like the two of you, to conspire in order to force me into this tedious situation.” A half-smile is playing over his lips, and it’s as close as Jean-Luc Picard will get to admitting he’s glad his chief medical officer and ship’s counselor care enough about his wellbeing to concoct such schemes.

All the same, as the counselor, it is her job to remind him of the reasons they are here. Captain Picard has been distracted, distant and ratty with his officers in a way that’s most unusual for him, despite his generally aloof manner. After Edward Jellicoe’s stint captaining the _Enterprise_, crew morale wasn’t great to start with, and Picard’s current mood isn’t doing anything to improve that.

“This isn’t just about what Gul Madred did,” Deanna says, laying a hand gently on his arm. “It started long before that. We all know you’ve been overworking yourself. We haven’t seen you at any of the jazz recitals in Ten Forward of late. You didn’t go to Data’s poetry reading a few weeks ago, and Beverly missed your singing talents in last month’s production of _The Pirates of Penzance_.” Arranging her features into a stern mask, Deanna injects steel into her voice. “You, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, have been overworking yourself. This has gone beyond burnout. You won’t be in any fit state to lead this ship if you carry on as you have.”

Picard glowers. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Let’s get this meditation business over with.”

“We’ll start with a body scan, then add some deep breathing and noting of thoughts as they pass,” Deanna explains calmly. “Drop your shoulders. Try and relax.”

She guides him through the meditation, and is surprised by his ability to pull back his focus in an instant over the twenty-minute session.

“Now,” she says after they have both opened their eyes. “Notice how you feel. Has it changed?”

Picard looks as serene as she’s ever seen him. “I will admit I do feel somewhat less burdened than before. It’s easier to think clearly.” He rubs at the top of his head absently. “I might even be persuaded to try it regularly — in the privacy of my office, of course, rather than this dank cave.”

“I’m pleased, Captain,” Deanna says with a satisfied smile.

“Would you care to join me on my next equestrian adventure, Counselor?” Picard asks, springing to his feet.

“I can’t ride a horse,” she admits in a small voice, and a rare burst of laughter bubbles from her very serious captain.

He pats her shoulder. “I can teach you, Deanna. There’s nothing to it.” He pauses. “Shall we say 0900 hours, two days from now? I’ll reserve us a holodeck.”

“As you wish,” Deanna says, and accepts the hand he offers to pull her to her feet. The captain never uses her first name without intent, and she is touched by the gesture of familiarity.

“Thank you,” he says as they are about to exit the holodeck. “Really.”

“If you take better care of yourself, that’s all the thanks I need,” she tells him.

It's no lie.

**Author's Note:**

> Referenced episodes: _The Best of Both Worlds I/II, The Host, In Theory, Ethics_ (brief mention of _The Game_), _Chain of Command I/II._
> 
> Title from 'You Will Be Found' from the musical Dear Evan Hansen, which is just the most gorgeous song and gives me all the feels about the TNG crew.


End file.
